
01ass„ 7/f-f 

Book_ L2M^ 



/ST 7 



Cbe Bouse of 
(be Bean 



mind Browne 



Buffalo, the Peter Paul Book 
Company. . . «o main Street 



S-' 






Copyright, 1897 
By IRVING BROWNE 



THREE HUNDRED COPIES PRINTED 

FROM TYPE BY THE PETER PAUL 

:'l JjOOlJ COMpAfrCltf BUFFALO, N. Y. 



' , ' « « • , 



-Jf trappings is frrtef 
^txxl yfs's teuak &e;ems rngsterixms, tlmtxk 
Thx karri — mxxi turn t^ teaf. 



CONTENTS 



THE WINDOW LOOKING OVER SEA 



The Voice of the Shell . 


3 


The Bubbles of Life .... 


5 


The Companion-Way . 


7 


The Wind ..... 


9 


A Vision of Ships . . . . . 


ii 


The Land of Verdure .... 


H 


The Lions ...... 


15 


The Smoke-Traveler .... 


16 


Parsifal — At Baireuth . 


20 


The Windmill ..... 


21 


Venice ..... 


23 


Woodlane ..... 


29 


THE WINDOW LOOKING ON THE 




WOODS 




Bob White ...... 


33 


Thanksgiving ..... 


35 


A Dream of Leeds . . . . . 


37 



THE WINDOW LOOKING ON THE 
STREET 

Godiva . . . . . 41 

The Vane ..... 43 

A Jail Window . . . . -45 

The Girl He Left Behind Him 46 

Fortune . . . . . -47 



Contents 



BY THE HALL FIRE 



Juvenisenex . 

The Water Nymph 

The Head of the House 

My Clocks 

The Right Season 

Afternoon Tea . 



5i 
54 
56 
59 
62 

65 



THE BEDROOM 



Two Worlds 

A Bed in a Country Inn . 

Night Noises 



69 
73 



THE NURSERY 



Little Man . 

My New World . 

A Human Flower 

A Terror . 

Lost — A Boy-Baby . 

Spring and Sea . 

A Little Life . 

On His High Horse 

Cradle Song . 

How to Make a Snow Man 

The Telegram 

The Blue Boy 

A Complaint of Venus 

My Lady 

Christening Hymn 

A Night Pigeon . 

The Woodpecker 

Lorraine's Temptation 

Three Heads 

Bedtime . 



82 
83 
85 
87 
89 
91 
92 

94 
95 
96 
98 

99 
101 
102 
103 
105 
107 
108 



Contents 



THE LIBRARY 

How a Bibliomaniac Binds His Books . . 113 

Solitaire . . . . . .116 

How I Go a-Fishing . . . . 11S 

A Portrait . . . . .121 

My Shingle . . . . . .123 

The Sentimental Chambermaid . . 125 

My Schoolmate . . . . .127 

Ode to Caliph Omar .... 130 

My Friends the Books .... 132 



THE WINDOW LOOKING ON THE 
CHURCHYARD 

Man's Pillow ..... 137 

The Fates ..... 139 

The Bell . . . . . .141 

Love's Ghost ..... 143 

Hope . . . . . 144 



THE GARRET 

The Poet . . . .147 

The Spinning Wheel .... 149 



ON THE TOWER 

Young and Old . . . . .153 

The Moon a9 Viewed by Different Persons . 154 



The Window Looking 
Over Sea 



Over Sea 



The Voice of the Shell. 

A CARELESS wanderer on the beach, 
When the early sky is clear — 
What is the pink shell's murmuring speech 
To his inquiring ear ? 

Its voice is only Love, 
Its murmur is only Love ; 
No cloud in the sky, and the wind is sweet, 
And with joy and hope his pulses beat ; — 
Its murmur is only Love, 
Its voice sings only Love. 

At noon, when the sea is high, 

And the sun is fierce and hot, 
And the vision of morn has gone by, 
And the clasp of Love holds not ; 

The shell speaks only Fame, 

It murmurs only Fame; 
The sky is fierce with a desert blast, 
And the promise of morn on the wind has passed ; 

The shell chants only Fame, 

Its burden is only Fame. 



Ov>er Sea 

At night, when the tide is low, 
And the heavens are overcast, 

And the pulses of life beat slow, 
What is the message at last ? 
It whispers only Rest, 
It has no word but Rest. 

A star shines over a distant hill, 

A single star, and the wind is chill ; — 
The shell whispers only Rest, 
Its constant hymn is Rest. 

Oh, Love of the morning, so dim ! 
Oh, elusive Fame of the noon ! 
Oh, prophecy of the evening hymn ! 
Will my Love come back to me soon ? 

But the shell says only Rest, 

Its single whisper is Rest ! 
Can I gain my Love once more ? 
My love and my faith restore ! — 

But the shell still whispers, Rest ! 

Its final murmur is Rest ! 



Over Sea 



The Bubbles of Life. 

A BOY and girl upon the yellow beach 
Blew shining bubbles in the summer air; 
And as they floated off they named them, each 
Choosing what seemed to him or her most fair. 

" I name mine Wealth," exclaimed the careless boy; 

" So may I never have to count the cost, 
But ships and houses own, as now a toy;" — 

But Wealth was driven far out to sea and lost. 

" I name mine Beauty," said the pretty girl; 

" So women all shall envy my fair face, 
And men shall kneel and beg me for a curl; " — 

But Beauty vanished quickly into space. 

" I name this Fame," essayed the boy again ; 

" So may I hear my praises every hour, 
As orator or soldier, sung by men;" — 

But Fame was wrecked against the beacon tower. 

" This is Long Life," returned the little maid; 

" So may I happy be for many a year, 
Nor be till late of ugly death afraid; " — 

But Long Life broke within a graveyard near. 



Over Sea 

At last twin globules they together blew, 

And named them Love, as slow they rose on high ; 

The sun shone through them with prismatic hue, 
Till Love was lost within the glowing sky. 




Over $*a 



The Companion-Way. 

I FIRST saw Betty on a ship, 
A-sailing to the south ; 
A merry smile was on her lip, 

And from her rosy mouth 
There issued bantering words one day, 
On meeting in the companion-way. 

We paced the deck for many a mile, 

We counted distant sails, 
And did the tedious hours beguile 

With flying-fish and whales ; 
But best we liked soft words to say 
Within the close companion-way. 

That way was wide enough for one, 

But rather snug for two, 
And though not meant to sit upon, 

We made not much ado 
To sit in conversation gay 
Within that close companion-way. 

As Betty once sat on the stair, 
The vessel gave a lurch, 



dm Sea 

And as to prosper my affair, 

Threw Betty from her perch ; 
Within my arms she fell and lay, 
At foot of the companion-way. 

She looked quite faint : I kissed her close, 

It didn't bring her to ; 
A repetition of the dose 

Imparted strength anew ; 
A new-born hope gave out a ray 
Within that dark companion-way. 

Said I, " Sweet Betty, be my mate." 
Quoth Betty, " Well, why not? " 

And on that ladder of our fate 
We fixed our earthly lot; 

And though we both grow old and gray, 

We'll stick to this companion-way. 



Oe*r S?a 



The Wind. 

7^ HE wind blows over the sea, 
Blowing homeward the bulky ships ; 
The land looms under the sailor's lee, 

And he dreams of his sweetheart's lips. 
The wind creeps over the wave, 
It stirs the pines by the deeps, 
It sweeps the grass on the quiet grave 
Where the sailor's sweetheart sleeps. 

The wind sweeps over the sand 

Of the desert so hot and bright ; 
It heaps the grave of the Arab band ; 

It covers the sphinx from sight. 
The wind breathes laden with balm, 

It wrinkles the face of the pool, 
It lifts the leaves of the lazy palm, 

In the night descending cool. 

The wind wails over the snow 

And ice of the virgin zone, 
Where half the year the great stars glow, 

And the white bear sits alone. 



Over Sea 

The wind circles over the town ; 

It swoops on the houses for prey, 
It lifts them aloft and hurls them down, 

As eagles snatch lambs away. 

The wind rustles over the plain 

Of the emigrant's boundless home, 
It heaves the waves of the wheaten main 

And the grass where the buffaloes roam. 
The wind sweeps the ruinous waste, 

Where wanders the big-horned ox 
And pilgrims to Peter's great dome haste, 

And shepherds pipe to their flocks. 

Oh ! thou untamable wind ! 

Though mortals may quench the fire 
And the water's violence bind, 

They cannot escape thine ire. 
Oh ! thou beneficent wind ! 

As Adam first blessed thy breath, 
The last man shall confess thee kind, 

As he lies awaiting death. 



io 



(h>er Sea 



A Vision of Ships. 

I LOVE to haunt the oozy slips 
And watch the weary beaten ships 
Drift in from distant lands, 
And hear the sailors' various speech 
When the big black hulks their mooring reach, 
And the anchor bites the sand. 

I stand and dream upon the shore 
Of all the famous ships of yore — 

They sail before my sight — 
And heroes, saints, and sages pass 
Like visions, in a magic glass, 

Of mystery and might. 

Once more a world with Noah swims 
Above the drowning world, while hymns 

Upon the tempest float ; 
Once more the Israelite lawgiver 
Drifts helpless down the Egyptian river, 

Safe in his bulrush boat. 

I seem the sacred Christ to see 
Upon the ship on Galilee, 

Commanding, " Peace, be still ! " 

II 



Over Sea 



Upon his pulpit-ship he stands 
And stretches forth his blessed hands 
To the people on the hill ; 

Audacious Jason in the Argo 
Returning with his precious cargo 

Of magic golden fleece ; 
And Ithacus, tied to the mast 
Until the Sirens' song was past 

And close the shores of Greece ; 

The rugged Norseman's beak of brass; 
And Cleopatra's barge doth pass 

With music and perfume ; 
The ship on which the Triumvir fled 
From Actium's sky and water red, 

At night with brow of gloom. 

I see the Venetian ship of state, 

The white maids on her deck who wait, 

The Doge in pride ecstatic — 
To make the sea his city's bride 
He throws his ring into the tide 

And weds the Adriatic. 

Again the stout crusaders sail, 
And clad in coats of gleaming mail 

They kneel on the holy strand ; 
Once more the enduring Genoese 
Goes voyaging over untried seas 

And scents the new-found land. 

12 



Over Sea 

Once more the Puritan Mayflower 
Is flying from the Stuart's power, 

And bears a precious treasure 
Of men who will not bow the knee, 
And the Indian lurks behind the tree 

And sin in every pleasure. 

I hear the crash on the Victory's deck, 
And dying in the smoke and wreck 

The Admiral's task is done; 
I see the vanquished Temeraire, 
Painted in Turner's picture fair, 

Drawn past at set of sun. 

I fain would stand a summer day 
And gaze out on the breezy bay 

And watch the tossing ships, 
Until the summer day is done, 
And the moon starts up while the great red sun 

Below the horizon dips. 

Then I may see the vessel haunted 
By ghostly shapes, the bird enchanted 

Hung on the mariner's neck, 
And the Flying Dutchman driven past, 
Wringing his hands in the lurid blast, 

Quick dwindles to a speck. 



13 



Over Sea 



The Land of Verdure. 

THE ivy creeps on the tower wall, 
The grass softly cushions the plain. 
The wavering, welcoming shadows fall 

On turf 'twixt the sun and the rain ; 
The weeds grow rank in the castle moat, 

The woodbine encircles the tree, 
The branches droop o'er the vagrant boat 

And drip on my boatmaid and me ; 
The blades shoot sparsely between the stones, 

The leaves flicker high on their perch, 
There's moss on covert of moldering bones, 

There's a verger in every church ! 



14 



Over Sea 



The Lions. 

THE drowsy lions of Trafalgar lie, 
With pride and conquest sated, round about 
The hero's column; travelers pass by, 

With careless glance, or oftener without 
A thought of all the glory storied there, 
That makes the Lion-Island's fame so fair. 

Thou solitary lion of Lucerne, 

Defeated, gasping, on a foreign shield — 

To thee the stranger's steps with fondness turn, 
Thou dying majesty ! to thee we yield 

The tribute due to loyalty and love 

Unshaken as the solid cliff above. 



15 



Over Sea 



The Smoke-Traveler. 

WHEN I puff my cigarette, 
Straight I see a Spanish girl, 
Mantilla, fan, coquettish curl, 
Languid airs and dimpled face, 
Calculating fatal grace; 
Hear a twittering serenade 
Under lofty balcony played ; 
Queen at bullfight, naught she cares 
What her agile lover dares ; 
She can love and quick forget. 

Let me but my meerschaum light, 
I behold a bearded man, 
Built upon capacious plan, 
Saber-slashed in war or duel, 
Gruff of aspect but not cruel, 
Metaphysically muddled, 
With strong beer a little fuddled, 
Slow in love and deep in books, 
More sentimental than he looks, 

Swears new friendships every night. 



16 



Owr Sea 

Let me my chibouk enkindle, — 

In a tent I'm quick set down 

With a Bedouin lean and brown, 

Plotting gain of merchandise, 

Or perchance of robber prize ; 

Clumsy camel load upheaving, 

Woman deftly carpet weaving ; 

Meal of dates and bread and salt, 

While in azure heavenly vault 
Throbbing stars begin to dwindle. 

Glowing coal in clay dudeen 
Carries me to sweet Killarney, 
Full of hypocritic blarney ; 
Huts with babies, pigs, and hens 
Mixed together ; bogs and fens ; 
Shillalahs, praties, usquebaugh, 
Tenants defying hated law, 
Fair blue eyes with lashes black, 
Eyes black and blue from cudgel-thwack, - 

So fair, so foul, is Erin green. 

My nargileh once inflamed, 

Quick appears a Turk with turban, 
Girt with guards in palace urban, 
Or in house by summer sea 
Slave-girls dancing languidly ; 
Bowstring, sack, and bastinado, 
Black boats darting in the shadow; 

17 



Over Sea 



Let things happen as they please, 
Whether well or ill at ease, 
Fate alone is blessed or blamed. 

With my ancient calumet 

I can raise a wigwam's smoke, 
And the copper tribe invoke, — 
Scalps and wampum, bows and knives, 
Slender maidens, greasy wives, 
Papoose hanging on a tree, 
Chieftains squatting silently, 
Feathers, beads, and hideous paint, 
Medicine-man and wooden saint, — 

Forest-framed the vision set. 

My cigar breeds many forms — 

Planter of the rich Havana, 

Mopping brow with sheer bandana ; 

Russian prince in fur arrayed ; 

Paris fop on dress parade ; 

London swell just after dinner ; 

Wall street broker — gambling sinner ; 

Delver in Nevada mine ; 

Scotch laird bawling " Auld Lang Syne; " 
Thus Raleigh's weed my fancy warms. 

Life's review in smoke goes past — 
Fickle fortune, stubborn fate, 
Right discovered all too late, 
18 



©wr Sea 

Beings loved and gone before, 
Beings loved but friends no more, 
Self-reproach and futile sighs, 
Vanity in birth that dies, 
Longing, heartbreak, adoration, — 
Nothing sure in expectation 
Save ash-receiver at the last. 




'9 



Over Sea 



Parsifal— At Baireuth. 

OH solemn harmonies that sound 
When worldly light and pleasure fail, 
And magic radiance all around 
Glows through the Holy Grail ! 

Come, lover of a vanished friend ! 

Uplifted on these strains divine, 
Feel love and mercy without end 

In pitying Christ that shine ! 

Oh Man of Sorrows ! cure his grief, 
And let the world's repining small 

Within thy bosom find relief, 
Thou Sorrower for all ! 

Forgetful of the world's unrest, 

Each troubled heart in reverence bends, 

And for one fleeting moment blest 
The Holy Dove descends. 



Over Sea 



The Windmill. 

THE windmill stands on a breezy hill 
Overlooking the tossing sea, 
Or a sluggish river flowing still, 
While the ships pass merrily. 

The water mills mourn with silent wheels, 
When summer scorches the stream, 

But the windmill always the breezes feels, 
And its wings in the bright air gleam. 

Four generations of dusty men 

Have mopped their glistening polls, 

And watched the grain in their creaking pen, 
And counted their golden tolls. 

The crazed knight tilted in vain but well 
At the mill on the Spanish plain, 

But this one bears scars of shot and shell 
From warfare on land and main. 

It waves its wings to the ships that bound, 

With them it is longing to sail, 
But doomed to a weary treadmill round 

It beats the air with its flail. 



.1 



Oeer Sea 

The ships sail by ; but the mill stands fast, 
As a hundred years it has stood, 

And sees in water its image glassed, 
Gray granite and mossy wood. 

Oh weary, longing, impatient soul, 

In an uncongenial soil ! 
Strive not for an unattainable goal, 

But bless and be blest in thy toil. 




22 



Ot>er Sea 



o 



Venice. 

UT of the land and in the sea, 
Venice is all the world to me. 



All is quaint and queer and quiet, 
Naught of trade's annoying riot ; 
Neigh of nag and noise of car 
From this region banished are ; 
Only horses of Saint Mark, 
Motionless in metal dark ; 
Harmless necessary cat 
Dodges not the fell brickbat ; 
Here no curs disturb our ease 
Nor communicate their fleas ; 
Nought is heard but roar of tongue 
Gay and careless crowds among, 
And the clang of bells at night, 
Ringing till the east is bright, 
And the tinkle of guitar 
To the sound of voices far, 
In the amorous serenade 
Under latticed window played. 

Crooked, stony, filthy alleys, 
Black and graceful darting galleys, 

23 



Ow Sea 



Boatmen chaffing, swearing, steering 
With a skill no danger fearing ; 
Every color under heaven, 
Rivaling the rainbow seven, 
On the stone or stuccoed walls 
When the slanting sunshine falls ; 
Or forbidding shadows lurk 
In the alleys, somber, murk, 
Or the bashful, crescent moon, 
Ripening into roundness soon, 
Lights the water's gentle ripple 
Which the evening breezes stipple. 

Pavements laid in rare mosaic, 
Trod by priest in gown, or laic ; 
Domes with painted figures quaint 
Of apostle or of saint ; 
Nobles on their marrowbones 
Kneeling on the precious stones, 
Which like waves of Adriatic 
Heave in manner most emphatic ; 
They don't mind their neighbors' fleas 
Skipping on their ragged knees. 

Windows showing shell and coral, 
Prints of ballet girls immoral, 
Antique paintings made to order, 
Cotton scarfs with gorgeous border, 

24 



Over Sea 

Silver filigree and paste, 

Fans for every age and taste, 

Ivories in rare devices 

Which they sell for twenty prices, 

Glass of every form and hue 

Which the ancient workmen blew. 

If a letter one should ask, it 
Mounts by means of cord and basket, 
Saving postman flights of stairs 
While he minds his own affairs. 

Water-babies here abound, 
In canals retired found ; 
To a floating board they cling 
Tethered by the mother's string. 
Beggar, dirty, picturesque, so 
Lazy slumbering alfresco ; 
Though his last of coin is spent, he 
Feels the dole e far niente. 
Dreading water without doubt, 
Administered inside or out ; 
He, as cicerone, tells 
Horrors of the dungeon cells 
Underneath the Bridge of Sighs, 
Opening the tourists' eyes ; 
Warbling as he points the scene 
Of the deadly guillotine, 

25 



Over Sea 

Or the hole where Byron slept, 
And where better men have wept ; 

Sings he not the Non scordar, 
But a merrier song by far 
Sang in prison dark and dank 
Fetches him an extra franc. 

Then the women, fair, patrician, 
As on canvases of Titian, 
In their gondolas take air, 
Look about with languid stare, 
Or from latticed windows' height 
Drop a rose in moonlit night 
On some late and tuneful lover 
Who with song and wine brims over. 

Then the sails of brown and yellow, 
Every one unlike its fellow, 
Or of red with tip of green 
On the sapphire sea are seen, 
Swelling from the straining mast 
As they dash the Lido past. 

Then tYit fete of Redentore 
Celebrates the gracious story, 
With its bridge of lighted boats, 
Every sort of thing that floats 
Gay with lanterns, music, rockets, 
Till candles sputter in their sockets. 
26 



Over Sea 

Glimpse of garden oleanders, 
Where the Grand Canal meanders, 
Caught through precious iron grating, 
As of heaven to peri waiting, 
While above the jealous wall 
Palm leaves pliant rise and fall, 
And the poplar, stiff and straight, 
Stands like sentinel at the gate. 

In the spacious council chamber 
I on mental ladder clamber, 
And with due historic halo, 
Restore the face of Faliero ; 
And when no spectator's by, 
In the lion's jaw I shy- 
Denunciation to the State 
Of my landlord whom I hate. 
Or in dreams, if funds are low, 
I to the Rialto go, 
Where good Shylock lends to me 
On old clo' security ; 
While he's sorting out the heap 
I at Jessica take a peep ; 
Or at palace window high, 
As I lazily float by, 
See the Desdemona blond, 
With pathetic glances fond, 
Waving 'kerchief to the Moor 
As he slams the great front door. 
27 



Oser Sea 

Though no more thy ship of state, 
With doges on her decks who wait, 
Rules the sea with wedding-ring 
And maidens orange garlands bring ; 
Though the Lion of Saint Mark, 
Cracked and weather-stained and dark, 
From his column has descended, 
His despotic sway long ended, 
Teeth well filed and claws close grated, 
Roar, like Bottom's, mitigated, 
Tucked by keepers in museum, 
Can't be seen unless we fee 'em; 
Fortune, tiptoe on the world, 
Let my sails be ever furled 
Near thy shrine ; here let my eyes 
Gaze in ever new surprise ; 
While the breaker constant combs 
View thy palaces and domes 
Which against the sunset sky 
Into sudden darkness die. 

Fallen mistress of the sea, 
Let me cast my lot with thee ! 
Far from earth, down in the sea, 
Venice, thou art the land for me ! 



28 



Over Sea 



Woodlane. 

MY cottage sits on a rising ground 
Overlooking a shining bay ; 
The flocking sails on the billowy Sound 
Glisten all the sweet summer day. 

My cottage sits in the edge of a wood, 
With the moon shining through the trees, 

Their branches weaving a somber hood, 
And the smell of the sea o'er the lees. 

The confident quail comes up to my door, 
The catbird pipes on a neighboring rail, 

The owls look wiser than ever before, 
The kitten plays with the setter's tail. 

The rabbit skurries along the road, 

Provoking my cob to a race ; 
I almost step on the speckled toad, 

And the squirrel's nut-swollen face. 

The cows with breath as sweet as a bud, 

Lying under the walnut tree, 
Almost too sleepy to chew their cud, 

Reluctantly amble for me. 

29 



Over Sea 

No din of the city's heartless trade, 
No stare of the barbarous street, 

No duns nor disease to make afraid, 
Where cringing and selfishness meet. 

In my cushioned window let me lie, 
Let me dream till the daylight fails, 

Let the busy struggling world go by, 
Go by with the glittering sails. 

Oh ! ever to rest in Roslyn's sweet vale, 
Lie motionless under her trees, 

Drift out of this life with her last white sail, 
And breathe my last sigh on her breeze ! 




SO 



The Window Looking on 
the Woods 



the Uloods 



Bob White. 



B< 



Here I watch on a low mossy rail 
Very near to the close thicket shade, 
For 'tis there that for our little quail 

Such a cunning concealment we've made,- 
Sly Bob White! 

" Bob White ! Bob White ! 
We have nothing left over for lunch, 

Fit to speak of, except a small worm, 
And of very dry berries a bunch, 

Much too frugal for appetites firm, — 
Fine Bob White ! 

"Bob White! Bob White ! 
I'm afraid of the terrible cat, 

Of the man with the dog and the gun, 
Of the tramp with his hair through his hat, 
And of everything under the sun, — 
Brave Bob White ! 



33 



the Uloods 

" Bob White ! Bob White ! 
Robert White, if I once get you home, 
I will peck you and tousle you well, 
Just to teach you no longer to roam, 
But to stick to your nest in the dell, — 
Bad Bob White ! 

" Bob White ! Bob White ! 
I'm a lonely, uneasy quail-wife, 

And I'm jealous a bit too, I fear, 
But I love you much more than my life ; 

And you ought to come home to your dear,- 
Sweet Bob White ! 

« Bob White ! Bob White ! " 
So I listened all day to her call, 

But it ceased when the sun went to rest, 
And when locusts and katydids small 
Made monotonous noises, I guessed 
Bob came home. 



34 



tbe moods 



Thanksgiving. 

UPON the frozen, fruitless ground, 
Above a treasure he had found, 

A robin sang; 
Such rapture swelled his slender throat 
The chill air quivered with his note ; 

The silence rang 
With melody so high and long 
He seemed to be incarnate song ; 

He seemed to thirst — 
So tame he was as I drew near — 
That all the heavens and earth should hear 

The grateful burst. 
No alderman at turtle feast, 
Nor hungry man o'er smoking beast, 

Such bliss could know, 
No parching traveler on the sand, 
Discovering water near at hand, 

More joy could show. 
No juicy fruit nor dainties ripe 
Had so attuned his little pipe 

To praise the Lord ; 
'Twas but a bunch of withered berries 
Or unnutritious starveling cherries 

That spread his board ! 

35 



the moods 

That robin's rapturous merriment 
Exposed man's selfish discontent 

In its true feature ; 
That day a sermon rare and good 
Was preached in aisle of sombre wood 

By feathered creature. 
And often when I bow my head 
In thankfulness for bounties spread, 

And look on high, 
I walk once more as in my youth, 
And hear again in very truth 

That robin's crv. 




36 



Ok moods 



A Dream of Leeds. 

A HAMLET I visit in frequent dreams, 
At the foot of the Catskill slopes, 
Where the most capricious of mountain streams 
Its way to the Hudson gropes. 

A crumbling stone bridge, half hidden from view 

By the curtaining elm and birch, 
Rears one big arch for the pike to swim through, 

And three little ones for the perch ! 

A red brick inn by the sauntering creek 

Obtrudes an illegible sign, 
Where tired coach horses the water trough seek 

While the passengers stop to dine. 

The dusty sheep canter over thebridge , 
And the cow bells are tinkling faint, 

And the sun sinks slowly behind the ridge 
In hues that no mortal can paint. 

The clouds roll black and the rain with a hiss 
Scares the haymakers in the valleys, 

And Hudson's bowlers score never a miss 
At the pins on their ghostly alleys. 

37 



tbc iUoods 

My young companions their easels spread 

In the shimmering summer air ; 
On a mossy root I pillow my head, 

And whistle "Robert ! Robert ! " 

Our pockets are light, but so is the heart, 

The brow is unwrinkled by grief; 
Those landscape painters love only their art, 

And I never have had a brief. 

The brushes have dropped from the hands of some, 

They lie by the river at rest; 
Kind Nature receives her interpreters dumb 

And folds them deep down in her breast. 

But some are N. A.'s and even R. A.'s, 
With the great of the earth they mingle, 

While I have stepped off from the world's highways, 
And cherish a faded old " shingle." 

Restorers have mended the bridge anew, 

For the inn you may vainly search, 
But the big arch stands for the pike to swim through, 

With the three little ones for the perch ! 



38 



The Window Looking on 
the Street 



the Street 



Godiva. 

"HHIS sweet in Coventry to walk, 

A And dream that round the square 
A palfrey may demurely stalk, 

And on his back may bear 
Godiva of the shining tresses, 
The sheerest of go-diving dresses. 

And every day " the shameless noon," 
With just the same twelve strokes, 

Sends forth the same melodious tune 
Above the ancient oaks, 

While shimmering the sunbeams quiver 

Upon the dimpled, lazy river. 

And at this corner stands the house 
Where Peeping Tom did lie 

Ensconced in garret like a mouse, 
To see the dame ride by, — 

Poor fool, to risk both eyes when one 

For his mean purpose would have done ! 

But taxes now the town enrich 

As if the rider fair 
Had been restricted to a " switch " 

Instead of her own hair ; 

41 



the Street 



And doubtless she had been less hot 
If she had worn a " Psyche knot." 

'Tis sad to let such legends die, 

But this enchanting tale 
Was never fact at Coventry, 

Or people would not fail 
To stuff the lady's horse when dead, 
And show him at some pence a head. 




42 



Cfce Street 



The Vane. 

THREE hundred years of foul and fair, 
Of clear and cloudy sky, 
I've veered and rattled in the air 

And kept high company. 
I've many rivals in this town, 

On spires both low and tall, 
On whom I haughtily look down ; 

I feel above them all. 
My nearest neighbor is a fish ; 

He flounders in the air, 
I dare say much against his wish — 

He's foolish perched up there. 
At Saint Sebastian's, down the street, 

An arrow points the wind — 
An emblem, innocently meet, 

Of a narrow creed and blind. 
A dumpy, gilded, common cock 

Reminds the Lenten faster 
At Peter's Church, in the next block, 

How he denied his master. 
Upon a' mortgaged church hard by, 

The wind they fain would raise 
Rotates an angel in the sky, 

Whose trumpet sounds no praise. 

43 



tfte Street 

On country barns I see a sheep — 

The sense of this is plain : 
In order weather signs to keep 

They need a wether vane. 
On city barns I see a horse ; 

I hear the Psalmist sing — 
(And that's the reason why, of course) - 

" A horse is a vain thing." 
On me the pigeon and the stork 

Are wont to find a rest, 
And in my quaint old iron work 

Build now and then a nest. 
Once in ten years a daring tar, 

Invoking first his saint, 
Fast clinging to my slender spar, 

Gives me a coat of paint ; 
And artists come from far and near 

To copy my design, 
And many younger vanes appear 

With features like to mine. 
But I grow old and clogged with rust, 

My round becomes a toil ; 
This creak is painful, and I must 

Soon take a dose of oil. 
To me the world looks small and dim, 

A very far-off land ; 
I wonder how it seems to Him 

Who holds it in his hand! 

44 



tfte Street 



A Jail Window. 

FROM out the grated window of a jail 
Two faces looked with angry, evil glance — 
Two aged men's — with tedious durance pale, 
And stamped with hatred, vice, and ignorance. 

A morning-glory twined about the grate 
And lifted up its blossoms white and blue, 

And as in sympathy with their hard fate, 
Its modest freshness pitifully threw. 

Sweet emblem of God's love for mortals frail ! 

Which finds in hardened natures some faint leaven, 
And from the grievous ladder of a jail 

Prays them to struggle, like the flower, toward 
heaven. 



45 



the Street 



The Girl He Left Behind Him. 

A HOST marched through a bannered street, 
Proudly, proudly to the war, 
But one looked up, his love to greet, 

Sadly, sadly from afar. 
She pressed her heart so full of fears, 
She threw him a rose all wet with tears — 

Oh ! life is but a span — 
And the fifes screamed merrily in the van, 
" The girl I left behind me." 

The host lay on a trampled plain, 

Silently, silently there they lay, 
And ever the deadly battle-stain 

Redly, redly marked the clay. 
One pressed to his heart a pictured face, 
And fondly kissed the pictured grace — 

Oh ! life is but a span — 
She fades from the sight of the dying man — 

The girl he left behind him. 



4 6 



Che Street 



Fortune. 

" T^ORTUNE ! poising on thy wheel, 
X Wilt thou turn my way ? 
Bring me best of human weal ; 
Grant me high Fame, 
That men may say, 
When they speak my name, 
< He well filled his day. 5 "— 
But blindfold Fortune would not stay. 

1 ' Fortune ! hold thy running wheel, 
Prithee turn to me ; 
Quickly unto me reveal 
Riches so great, 

That my decrees, 
Like those of Fate, 

May bend all knees." — 
But Fortune swifter still did flee. 

" Fortune ! see me growing gray, 
Grant me Love at last, 
So ere I shall pass away, 
My lonely soul 

No more shall fast, 
But lose its dole, 

On some fair bosom cast." — 
Then Fortune ceased to glimmer past. 

47 



tfte Street 

Changed in aspect on her wheel 

To likeness of a wife, 
Mile on mile we gayly reel ; 
Her shining face 

Gives me new life ; 
At swiftest pace, 
Our only strife 
In wonder at our blessings rife. 




4 8 



By the Hall Fire 



the Rail Tire 



Juvenisenex. 

TIME writes no wrinkles on my brow - 
Perhaps for lack of thought ; 
The years do not my shoulders bow, 

Nor are with weakness fraught. 
I do not shed my teeth at night, 

My hair stays on my head ; 
No mystery that dreads the light — 

No wig hung near my bed. 
My eyes are clear as any prism, — 

No twitches of neuralgia, 
Nor any pangs of rheumatism, 

Nor sickness save nostalgia. 
I hate old girls who fight at whist, 

I dread their sneers and scandal ; 
Young ones, afraid not to be kissed, 

Are game more worth the candle. 
I hate old men, their talk of trade, 

Of politics and stocks ; 
I much prefer a rosy maid 

In cart or opera box. 
Young men are my extreme delight ; 

I smile at their ado, 
When I am out with them at night, 

To " put the old man through." 

51 



the Ball Tire 

I never tell a moldy joke, 
Nor hash familiar lore, 
But I remember all the folk 

Who've heard these things before. 
I never make young folk deride, 

And look at me with scorn, 
By "You remember Jones? " who died 

Years before they were born. 
I do not " hop " much when I dance ; 

My coat is cutaway ; 
I'm not wrapped up in Scott's romance, 

But yield to Thackeray. 
When people Patti's warbling praise, 

Or rave of Wagner's wind, 
I do not speak of " better days," 

Nor mention Jenny Lind. 
I surely am no legal owl, 

Who only pipes " to wit ; " 
But smooth my face from studious scowl, 

And laugh and jest a bit. 
I don't look back for law to Coke, 

I neither dose nor bleed, 
I hold with those quite modern folk 

Who scorn an outworn creed. 
Then why will people call me " Sir," 

And set the easy chair, 
And say, " Let me that cushion stir," 
Or " Don't you dread the air? " 



52 



the Ball fire 



Why do the girls cry " Dear old love ! " 

While smiles their faces dimple ? 
Why do the boys say " Fine old cove ! " - 

The reason's very simple ; 
In vain the crow's-foot spares my eye ; 

In vain the jaunty bearing; 
In vain the laugh and spirits high ; 

In vain the clothes I'm wearing ; 
In vain on my mustache the gray 

Has just begun to mix ; 
My daughter gives the game away, 

For she is twenty-six ! 




53 



the Rail Tire 



The Water Nymph. 

I HAVE a young domestic daughter, 
Who owns a mania for water ; 
And cleanliness, she has confessed, 
With godliness is quite abreast. 
Not only does she scour my house, 
But married she would scrub her spouse ; 
Husband the water ne'er would she, 
But water husband liberally. 
As soon as I come weary home 
She goes at me with sponge and comb, 
Saying, " You dirty, bad old man, 
Come let me clean you, if I can ! " 
Herself she bathes three times a day, 
Forgets to eat — almost to pray — 
And when all else is done, she rushes 
And scours sapolio and brushes. 
Her dog she scrubs, both trunk and limb, 
And rubs the bark all off from him. 
With watering-pot she drowns each plant 
Save water-lily, and that she can't. 
But I grow sad lest by and by 
She may have cataract on the eye, 
Or find her spirits damped with pain 
Of dropsy or water on the brain. 

54 



the Ball Tire 

A Baptist sure she ought to be, 
Nor kneel at a baptistery, 
For she with those should best accord 
Who offer tanks unto the Lord, 
Nor lose their appetite for dinner 
Because he damns the sprinkling sinner. 
When she pores o'er the Holy Book 
She for the Flood does always look, 
And laughs with unrestrained glee 
At Pharaoh swallowed in the sea ; 
Moses she loves, who from the rock 
Drew water with an angry knock, 
And heartily hates Abraham, 
Who put no drop in Dives' damn ; 
Credits the miracles divine 
Save turning water into wine. 
She likes to raise her spotless clothes, 
To show her dainty pumps and hose. 
An undisguised desire she hath 
To marry some young man from Bath, 
Or else she'd give her tender heart 
To one who drives a sprinkling-cart. 
Though I be foul with earthly stains, 
My girl in this fond bosom reigns, 
And I am sure, whate'er I be, 
She zealously will wash-up me, 
And when she ceases here to dwell, 
Whate'er betide, all will be well. 

55 



the fiall Tire 



The Head of the House. 

I'VE read in verses of old Homer, 
Of Ithacus, so long a roamer 
That all his house forgot his face 
Save Argus, dog of shepherd race ; 
I've learned how Orange in his tent, 
On Holland's safe deliverance bent, 
From Spain's assassins in the dark, 
Was saved by watchful spaniel's bark ; 
And I have heard old poets tell 
Of that three -headed dog of hell 
Whom Hercules found it hard to quell; 
And I have yielded to the spell 
Of Ouida's dog and his young master, 
Their painful lot and sore disaster ; * 
And wept o'er Rab, the peasant's friend, 
And his devoted life and end ; 
And laughed at simple Launce, well beaten 
For puddings that his Crab had eaten ; 
And glowed o'er Byron's heartfelt lines 
In which a dog immortal shines ; 
And gazed on Hogarth's portrait, where 
He sets his pug with solemn air ; 

* "A Dog of Flanders." 

56 



€1>e Rail Tire 

Or the Magician of the North, 

As with his hound he sallies forth ; 

Or that renowned Shakesperean scholar * 

Depicted with his dog in collar ; 

Or England's famous magistrate f 

As " Pincher" in his portrait sate; 

And read how Erskine shocked the nation 

With dog in wig at consultation ; 

And thought of monks who chose the word 

And called themselves " Dogs of the Lord ; 

And like De Stael, the more I ken 

Of dogs, the less I think of men. 

My little dog has no such claim 

To be set down in rolls of fame ; 

He is a trifling, homely beast, 

Of no use, or the very least. 

To shake imaginary rat, 

Or bark for hours at china cat ; 

To lie at head of stairs and start 

Like animated woolly dart 

Upon a non-existent foe ; 

Or on hind legs like monkey go 

To beg for sugar or for bone ; 

Never content to be alone ; 

To sleep for hours in the sun, 

Rolled up till head and tail are one ; 



* George Steevens. 
fEldon. 



57 



the Ball fire 

Usurping all the softest places, 

And keeping them with doggish graces ; 

To sneak between the housemaid's feet 

And scour unnoticed on the street ; 

Wag indefatigable tail, 

Cajole with piteous, human waii ; 

To dance with dainty, dandy air 

When nicely parted is his hair, 

And look most ancient and dejected 

When it has been too long neglected ; 

To growl with counterfeited rabies ; 

To be more trouble than two babies ; — 

These are the qualities and tricks 

That in my heart his image fix ; 

And so in cursory, doggerel rhyme, 

I celebrate him in his time, 

Nor wait his virtues to rehearse 

In cold obituary verse. 




58 



Che Ball Tire 



My Clocks. 

FIVE clocks adorn my domicile, 
And give me occupation, 
For moments else inane I fill 
With their due regulation. 

Four of these clocks, on each Lord's Day, 

As regular as preaching, 
I wind and set, so that they may 

The flight of time be teaching. 

My grandfather's old clock is chief, 
With foolish moon-faced dial ; 

Procrastination is a thief 
It always brings to trial. 

Its height is as the tallest men, 

Its pendulum beats slow, 
And when its awful bell booms ten, 

Young men get up and go. 

Another clock is bronze and gilt, 

Penelope sits on it, 
And in her fingers holds a quilt — 

How strange 'tis not a bonnet ! — 

59 



Z\n Ball fire 

Memorial of those weary years 
When she the web unraveled, 

While Ithacus choked down his fears 
And slow from Ilium traveled. 

Ceres upon the third, with spray 

Of grain, in classic gown, 
Seems sadly to recall the day 

Proserpine sank down, 

With scarcely time to say good-bye, 

Unto the world of Dis ; 
And keeps account, with many a sigh, 

Of harvest time in this. 

Another clock is rococo. 

Of Louis Sept or Seize, 
With many a dreadful furbelow 

An artist's hair to raise; 

Suggestions of a giddy court, 
W T ith fan and bonfflant bustle, 

When silken trains made gallant sport 
And o'er the floor did rustle. 

The fifth was brought in foolish trust, 

From Alpland far away, 
A baby clock, and so it must 

Be tended every day. 

60 



Cfte Ball Tire 

Importunate and trivial thing ! 

Thou katydid of clocks ! 
Defying all my skill to bring 

Right time from out thy box. 

"With works of wood and face of brass 
On which queer cherubs play, 

The tedious hours thou well dost pass, 
And none thy chirp gainsay. 




61 



the Ball Tire 



The Right Season. 

*OUL winter is done, 

Sweet summer begun ! 
We lie on the grass, 

My love and I, 
While the rare clouds pass 

In the June sky; 
Or watch in the field, 

While stroke of steel 
Which the mowers wield 

Doth nests reveal ; 
Or follow the trout 

In purling brook, 
Darting in and out 

Of rooted nook ; 
An iris on wings 

Distracts our sight ; 
The humblebee sings 

In zigzag flight ; 
Or sit in the shade 

And scent the hay, 
While the teasing maid 

Sings frolic lay ; 
Till cows from the pool 

And ox from wain 
62 



the Rail Tire 



Come to milking stool 
And welcome grain ; 
And the slender moon 
With one great star 
Rises all too soon 
O'er hilltop far. 
Old winter I fear 

With the frost in his hair ; 
Young summer is dear 
With her scent- laden air. 

Hot summer is past, 
Fine winter at last ! 
By the roaring fire 

My love and I 
Watch the sparks aspire 

To the dun sky ; 
While the huge trees reel 

To woodman's ax, 
And the whirring wheel 

Spins thread of flax; 
Or hark to the ring 

Of skaters' feet, 
Or coasters who sing 

On sledges fleet ; 
No noise of a hoof 

On feathery ground ; 
The storm on the roof 

Makes not a sound ; 

63 



the Ball Tire 

The robin picks crumb 

From sparkling snow, 
While the owl blinks dumb 

On sapless bough ; 
The breath of the cows 
Exhales like smoke, 
And the slow ox bows 

To snow-heaped yoke ; 
The frost on the panes 
Rears castles grand, 
Till the wide moon reigns 
O'er shadowy land. 
Dry summer I fear 

With the dust in her hair ; 
White winter is dear 
With his frost -laden air. 



6 4 



the Rail Tire 



Afternoon Tea. 

"117 HY are the good girls all married ? " groans 

As he sits by his evening fire, 
Awaiting his housekeeper's cup of tea, 

While the flames mount higher and higher. 

" Why are the good men all married?" sighs she, 
As she sits at the table for one, 
A-brewing her afternoon cup of tea, 

With her head on her hand till 'tis done. 

But when in the sweet summer afternoon 
These complainants sit under a tree, 

Their spirits will quick sing a different tune, 
As together they sweeten their tea ; 

And the last good girl and the last good man 
Join hands and touch lips on the good old plan, 
And the orb that looks down on that pair in June 
Smiles prophecies sure of a honeymoon. 



65 



The Bedroom 



the Bedroom 



Two Worlds. 

ON a weary pilgrimage I fare, 
I live in two worlds, it seems ; 
By day in a world of toil and care, 
By night in a world of dreams. 

In dreams I stand at my mother's side, 

Or sit on her patient knee ; 
She tells the tales of the Christmastide, 

How the Savior died for me. 

In dreams I hear the merry chimes 

With wondering and delight, 
And the sweet-voiced children sing their rhymes, 

And the Christmas tree is bright. 

In dreams I go to the village school, 

A girl looks over my book ; 
I risk the smart of the master's rule, 

And steal in her eyes a look. 

In dreams I fish in the shady brook, 

Or swim in its current clear ; 
I snare the trout with unfailing hook, 

Of the waves I have no fear. 

6 9 



the Bedroom 

In dreams I make the triumphant leap, 

And my kite flies out of sight ; 
I'm first in the race to the hilltop steep, 

And climb to the dizziest height. 

In dreams o'er the glittering ice I skim, 

And I hold a girl's soft hands ; 
We bend and sway with unweary limb, 

As we glide to far-off lands. 

In dreams I plead for a maiden's grace, 

And she gives her hand to me, 
And gazing each on the other's face 

We journey by land and sea. 

In dreams I speak to the listening crowd, 
And I sway the hearts of men ; 

Or apart from strife and contest loud 
I write with a facile pen. 

In dreams my schoolmate comes back to me, 

No more by slander estranged, 
Again we wander with noisy glee, 

As in boyhood's days we ranged. 

Then why must I daylight vigils keep, 

And lose this heavenly gleam ? 
Existence seems real when I sleep ; 

My waking life is a dream. 



70 



the Bedroom 



A Bed in a Country Inn. 

CONCEIVE the pangs that the Procrustean guest, 
Or Damiens on his dreadful bed of steel, 
Or cramped Ginevra in her oaken chest, 

Or Lawrence on his hot gridiron might feel ! 

Couches like theirs could hardly give less ease 
Than those which furnish many a country inn, 

Buzzed round by flies and gnats, lively with fleas, 
Restless as consciences not seared by sin ; 

Contrived with lofty ridge adown the middle, 
Like fell sea-serpent's vertebrae serrated, 

Contracted as the topmost string of fiddle, 
Lumpy like life-preservers full inflated. 

Dreaming of falling from the Pyramid 

Into the crocodile-infested Nile, 
Or from some sharp-topped peak the Alps amid, 

Into an icy, deadly, dark defile ; 

Sore toiling up the treacherous steep again, 
Like Sisyphus with his moss-shunning stone, 

Or bumpkin clinging to greased pole in pain, 

The sleepy sufferer may wake and curse and groan. 

71 



Cbe Bearoom 

Dire engine of a parsimonious host 

To murder sleep ! I rise betimes sore-headed, 
And aching in my limbs and looking like a ghost, 

Depart with hatred in my mind im<Wded. 




72 



the Bedroom 



Night Noises. 

SOME poet says the night is " stilly " — 
An utterance extremely silly, 
For any one who lies awake 
Can vouch that nightly noises shake 
The nerves far more than those by day, 
In spite of all Tom Moore can say; 
And there's a great variety, 
Not due to inebriety 
Nor to imagination's power, 
But to the silence of the hour, 
Enabling us clearly to hear them, 
And having heard, we learn to fear them. 
The wind sounds through the tight-stretched wires, 
Like moan of ghostly unpaid choirs; 
The wedge-defying windows rattle 
Like crash of musketry in battle ; 
A doctor's dog while yet 'tis dark 
Deals forth his tedious whine and bark ; 
A rooster calls his hens to sup — 
'Tis but a ruse to get them up ; 
A nightmare, stabled by a neighbor, 
Stamps loud as if at treadmill labor; 
The noisome cats upon the wall 
Like human babies shrilly squall ; 

73 



Clie Bedroom 

The furniture all cracks and snaps, 

Like volleys of percussion caps ; 

My secretary makes report 

Like monster cannon in a fort ; 

The picture frames all start and crack 

As if their joints were on the rack. 

I hear a burglar on the stairs — 

He's coming for my choicest wares ; 

His spirits will not be elated 

When he finds out my spoons are plated ; 

On his sin-blasted head I'd breathe a 

Choice blessing if he'd give me ether. 

The water in the bathroom drops, 

And I must count it till it stops, 

Or plucking courage up, with jaw set, 

Creep in and tighten up the faucet. 

A mouse is nibbling in the closet 

Where I my manuscripts deposit ; 

But very soon he'll get his fill — 

My poetry will make him ill. 

The clock strikes one, but I can't guess 
Whether it's one, or half hour less, 
Arid so with eyes wide open lie 
Till thirty minutes saunter by, 
And then the clock strikes one once more, 
But then my torment is not o'er, 
For possibly this means half past, 
So I must watch until at last 

74 



the Bedroom 

It sounds one stroke again, and now 
I ought to sleep, but still somehow, 
To certify it struck one thrice 
I wake until it strikes one twice ; 
It's surely two — I count the chimes, 
Sit up in bed, and write these rhymes. 




/O 



75 



The Nursery 



ClK nursery 



Little Man. 

HAIL ! you recent Little Man ! 
Matrimony's chiefest prize ! 
Formed on a mysterious plan 
With perfection that defies 
Earthly mold ! 
Time and money you have cost 
Not enough to make ado, 
But if worldly goods were lost, 
Owners wouldn't take for you 
Mines of gold ! 

Shooting stars and meteor stones 

From the arched heavens fall ; 
You were plumped with solid bones, 

But with peremptory squall, 
On our sphere. 
Here you reign, a despot small, 

Like an unrestricted czar, 
And upon your sudden call 

People rush from near and far, 
When they hear. 

Priest or judge or president, 

Doctor, broker, or dragoon — 
We are wrapped in wonderment 

Which of these will fit your tune 
Later on. 
79 



the nursery 

But unlike such characters, 
No alloy of sin you bring, 

No bad passion in you stirs, 

And you've ne'er a foolish thing 
Said or done. 

Very stern and set your gaze, 

Quick relaxing into laughter, 
When the house you early raise 

From foundation up to rafter 
In your glee. 
Store of pranks is in that skull, 

Grievous pout is on that lip, 
And that little frame is full 

Of a life from which you sip 
Ecstasy. 

Dreaming with those sapphire eyes, 

Brandishing that dimpled fist, 
Rousing with those joyous cries, 

Arching lips so often kissed, 
Seldom vexed — 
Beauty, wit, and talent sit 

Round about your baby-throne ; 
Youth and age will not admit 

To their hearts another one — 
Till the next ! 



80 



C*e nursery 



My New World. 

MY prow is tending toward the west : 
Old voices growing faint, dear faces dim, 
And all that I have loved the best 
Far back upon the waste of memory swim. 
My old world disappears : 
Few hopes and many fears 
Accompany me. 

But from the distance fair 
A sound of birds, a glimpse of pleasant skies, 

A scent of fragrant air, 

All soothingly arise 
In cooing voice, sweet breath, and merry eyes 

Of grandson on my knee. 

And ere my sails be furled, 
Kind Lord, I pray 
Thou let me live a day 

In my new world. 



81 



Che nursery 



A Human Flower. 

AS toward my island home the vessel flies 
i. It bears me toward a tiny speck of white, 
That flitting o'er the grass saluies my eyes 
And answers to my eager straining sight. 

And when I land upon the verdant tnound, 
He flings himself on me with breathless haste, 

And clings around me, uttering loving sound, 
And suits his walk to mine more sober-paced. 

His hair upon the summer breezes floats, 
His eyes reflect the brightness of a star, 

His voice is like the robin's mellow notes, 
His cheeks the seat of warring roses are. 

The dandelions in his chubby fist 

Than his free dancing locks are not more yellow, 
The violets by the dew of morning kissed 

Of his wide eyes might deem themselves the fellow. 

Ye summer winds ! blow favoring on his way ; 

Oh, sky! do not upon his voyage lower; 
Thou star! propitious turn his night to day; 

And nourish, mother Earth ! thy human flower. 

82 



the nursery 



A Terror. 

A TERROR is wasting our house, 
He ranges from cellar to attic, 
As fleet as a mischievous mouse, 
Defying his elders lymphatic. 

Fat hand-prints appear on the wall, 

And hieroglyphs on the door ; 
We hear our pet porcelain fall, 

And lamps are dashed down on the floor, 

His picture-books dog's-eared and worn, 
His pencils all broken and chewed, 

His dolls disemboweled and torn, 
Or raimentless, shockingly nude. 

A hoe from its handle divorced, 

A rake all whose teeth have been drawn, 
A wheel from its vehicle forced, 

With waterpot cumber the lawn. 

His animals entered the ark 

In pairs, with the wooden-head Noahs, 
But when they emerged from the dark 

Were minus their seals and their boas. 

83 



the nursery 

He's smashed the big elephant's trunk, 

The lion is mainly forlorn, 
Rhinoceros looks very drunk 

Because he's deprived of his horn. 

He's fractured the head of his drum, 
His musket is lacking the lock, 

His trumpet incurably dumb, 

His sword snapped in two with a shock. 

Keel up and dismasted his boat, 
In bath-tub is hopelessly wrecked ; 

Colliding with soap dish afloat, — 
What else could the skipper expect ? 

This fruitful cause of disaster 
Can smile like a calendar saint ; 

No cherub did ever old master 
More winning and innocent paint. 

How big is this terror gigantic ? 

Three feet and one inch is his height. 
How old is this character antic ? 

Three years, if the record is right. 

Thou darling piratical " kid " ! 

In chains thou shalt surely be hung ! 
The chains of these arms shall forbid 

Thy release till these verses are sung. 

8 4 



the nursery 



Lost — A Boy-Baby. 

Lament by a Young Mother. 

MY baby's lost ! Pie had long yellow curls, 
And spotless dresses just below his knee ; 
His eyes were blue, complexion like a girl's, 
And smile angelic as you e'er did see. 

His head encircled by that shining crown 
Reminded me of little Baptist John, 

As in Murillo's pictures kneeling down, 
That other Babe looks him so kindly on ! 

Instead of him they bring to me a boy 
In jacket, trousers almost to the ground ! 

That hair is closely cropped that was my joy, 
And strange man airs already has he found. 

With hands deep in his pockets swaggers he, 
He imitates his father's manly stride; 

My lap he now forsakes ; no more by me 

He stands and listens, eyes with wonder wide. 

Those curls I've hidden in a narrow box, 

And once a year I'll take them out and weep 

To think my three-year-old has lost his locks, 
And there is one less link his love to keep. 

85 



Cbe nursery 

But oh ! my boy, when you grow ill at ease, 
And love or worldly cares leave you no rest, 

Bring back your manhood to your mother's knees, 
And lay your head upon her faithful breast ! 




86 



tfie nursery 



Spring and Sea. 

THY life is bubbling in the spring, 
While mine is slipping fast to sea ; 
One fairy bark floats in thy ring, 
Dark sails of care o'ershadow me; 
But thou must flow, 
And I must go, 
Until we join the sea below. 

Gay birds are drinking from thy brim, 

And graceful flowers bloom and sway; 
Bare cliffs shut in my river's rim, 
And mists obscure the fateful way ; 
But thou must flow, 
And I must go, 
Until we reach the sea below. 

A pleasant murmur all the day 

Is heard within thy little bound, 
While tempests rage upon my way, 
And breakers give a warning sound ; 
But thou must flow, 
And I must go, 
Until we swell the sea below. 



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I would not shut thee in the spring, 

For careless lives have little scope, 
While watchful toil may pleasure bring, 
And to the storm-tossed sweeten hope ; 
So where I go 
Thou too must flow, 
Till swallowed in the sea below. 




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A Little Life. 

IN this mortal life, 
Sweetest things are fleeting; 
Only care and strife 

Last beyond a greeting. 

Scent of violets on the air 
Cheering pastures bleak and bare ; 
Many-colored sunset cloud 
Lighting mountain dusky-browed ; 
Melody's entrancing strain 
Soothing every sense's pain; 
Press of arms and kisses sweet 
Mark the moment flying fleet ; — 
All the loveliest are fleeting, 
Hardly last beyond a greeting. 

Baby life but two years old, 
Broken childish phrases, 

Loving arms, whose tender hold 
All my soul engages, 

Wilt thou any longer last 

Than those pleasures of the past ? 



Cfte nursery 

Hence ! all care and strife ! 

Love is never fleeting ; 
So this little life 

Lasts beyond a greeting. 




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On His High Horse. 

ON elephants the brown men ride, 
The black men mount the ostrich swift, 
On clumsy camel well astride 

The Arab ploughs the sandy drift. 

And tribute of an ivory ring 

On which to cut his squirrel teeth, 

And waving feathers too they bring 
To twine round baby's head a wreath. 

The Arab sends him store of dates 
Assurance of his love to make ; — 

A pity that such luscious cates 

Should raise an infant stomach-ache ! 

But mounted higher far than these, 

The baby, daily growing bolder, 
Crows loud and kicks and takes his ease 

Upon his patient fathers shoulder. 

And as the African despoils 

The ostrich of his plumage white, 

The baby big paternal coils 

Of hair roots out — a sorry sight ! 

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Cradle Song. 

HASTE, my baby, haste and grow ! 
Wilt thou always sleep and crow ? 
Up and down the pleasant land 
We should wander hand in hand; 
Leaning on thy stalwart arm 
Mother thou wilt shield from harm. 
Life's a span, 
Baby-man ! 
Haste thee, little man, and grow ! 

Baby, do not haste to grow, 

For thy mother loves thee so ! 

Lay thy little head a space 

Closely to her yearning face ; 

Snugly hid within her arms 

She shall keep thee from all harms. 

Life's a span, 

Baby-man ! 
But there's time enough to grow. 

When thy mother's hair is gray, 
Turn a moment from thy way, 
Let her tears and smiles be shed 
On her darling's manly head; 

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Once thy mother's chiefest joy, 
Let age leave thee still her boy. 
Life's a span, 
Grown-up man ! 
Time will bring us old and gray. 




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How to Make a Snow Man. 

PLUCK two huge icicles off from the eaves, 
Big as your body and brittle as eggs, 
Stick them down firm in the snow through the leaves, 
Forming a pair of most radiant legs. 

Roll him a body and head from the snow, 
Stick in some pebbles for nose and for eyes, 

For arms two icicles make a fine show, 
And then he is finished — a giant in size. 

Cock an old hat on his glistening poll, 
Stick a clay pipe in his open mouth, 

Fill with tobacco and light with a coal, 

And watch to see him move off to the south. 

Perhaps like a city-bred Feathertop 

He'll travel in search of a warmer spot, 

Limping along with a hobble and hop — 
Perhaps he will — and perhaps he will not. 



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The Telegram 



b 1 



WHAT news from the vibrating wires, 
Stretching down the dusty street 
With hum like invisible choirs, 
Comes fluttering down to my feet ? 

Does it tell of a tumble in stocks, 

Or visit of cousinly kin, 
Or despatch of some well-filled box, 

Or that Baby has swallowed a pin ? 

No message of direful mishap 

Appeals to my eager sight, 
But only a trivial scrap 

From the tail of my grandson's kite 



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The Blue Boy. 

" ^pHE Blue Boy " hangs on my wall, 
A But why is he called blue ? 
Old-fashioned and rather tall, 
A courtly figure, too. 

With breeches and silken hose, 
Broad hat with plumes in hand, 

A bang almost to his nose, 
Outdoors he's made to stand. 

Perhaps 'tis his blood that's blue ; 

His bright eyes never wince, 
From crown to rosetted shoe 

He looks a gentle prince. 

A lad of the " good old school," 
Before our manners hollow, 

Well set to the stately rule 
Of Merton and of Rollo. 

" Blue babies " I've sometimes seen, 
Whose heart-valves wouldn't close, 
But his vigorous, healthy mien 
No "blue-pill" treatment shows. 

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A family's rarely seen 

Called Blue, though White and Brown, 
Even Black and Gray and Green 

Paint every country town. 

Is he " Little Boy Blue" well grown? 

He carries not a horn ; 
Such dandy was never known 

To chase the cows from corn. 

A hundred years he has stood ; 

I really wish I knew 
What reason bad or good 

There is to call him Blue. 



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A Complaint of Venus. 

OH, yellow-haired lady, who rose from the sea ! 
Who kissed me and patted my head, 
Why don't you come back as you promised to me, 
And do for me all that you said ? 

You said you would go just behind those big rocks, 
And put on your shoes and your gown. 

And wring the salt water from out your long locks 
And braid them up neat on your crown. 

And then you would order a fine gilded cart, 

All harnessed to pretty tame birds, 
And then up in air like the lightning we'd dart, 

Looking down on the houses and herds. 

And then you would fit me a light pair of wings, 
And bring me a small bow and arrows, 

So I could fly round with the feathery things, 
And shoot at the robins and sparrows. 

Come back, pretty lady ! to stir I don't dare, 

And begin to be tired and pout ; 
I want to float high in the shining blue air, 

And cut all the other boys out. 

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My Lady. 

A STORK is clanging at our gate ; 
Quick ! doctor ! run and let her in ; 
What may the house anticipate 
From such a supernatural din ? 

My Lady has arrived ; her speech 

Is inarticulate as yet; 
But all good things within our reach 

She somehow manages to get. 

Her face is rather red with haste 
To give her subjects this surprise; 

She blushes maidenly when placed 
So scantly clad before their eyes. 

Her eyes are shut ; her little life 
Is rounded with a deal of sleep ; 

She thus escapes the wordy strife 
Of compliments her courtiers keep. 

She has a goodly retinue 

Appropriate to her position, 
All bowing down in order due : 

Mamma, nurse, laundress, and physician, 

LofC. 



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Small brother, father, doting aunt, 

Florist and poet-laureate; 
With such obeisances she can't 

Demand a better furnished state. 

She'll never view more lowly carriage 
Nor admiration any dafter, 

Except from one intending marriage, 
And possibly for three months after. 

My lady is a serious mite; 

So far she has not deigned a smile, 
Imported from her heavenly height, 

Her cringing courtiers to beguile. 

When thou shalt smile, my lady liege, 
Thou most despotic, royal dame, 

Remember, as he lays his siege, 
Thine ancient poet's humble claim. 



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Christening Hymn. 

10RD ! whose dearest name is Love, 
-* As thou didst upon thy Son, 
Send thy messenger, the Dove, 
Down upon this little one. 

Gentle Savior ! as on earth 

Thou didst call about thy knee 

Children of a human birth, 
Suffer her to come to thee. 

Holy Spirit ! to her heart, 

White and free from earthly stain, 
Faith and strength do thou impart, 

That she ever pure remain. 

As we consecrate this child 
With the water on her brow, 

Every passion wrong and wild 

From our hearts be banished now. 

Subject to this infant power, 
With such innocence in view, 

For one sweet and solemn hour 
Make us pure and childlike too. 

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A Night Pigeon. 

ALL day have the pigeons strutted and cooed 
* On the narrow shelf of their cote, 
And the fat cock-pigeon his sweetheart wooed 
Till evening, with amorous note. 

When the sun goes down they squeeze through the 
hole, 

Low bowing their feathery heads, 
And there on the top of the wind-swayed pole 

They silently rock in their beds. 

And when in the night I'm awaked from my dreams, 

By murmur like pigeon's refrain, 
I drowsily reason 'tis not what it seems, 

But gurgling of baby Lorraine. 



the nursery 



The Woodpecker. 

" C* ILLY woodpecker, fresh from the leaves 

Of woods that are neighbor to me, 
Tell me why you are drilling my eaves 

Instead of your hollow beech tree ? " 

" There's a fat little girl in this house, 
Conveyed by my gossip, the stork ; 

1 am told she is sly as a mouse, 
And bobs in her bath like a cork. 

"lam longing to show her my nest, 
With four little clamorous beaks 
All noisily piping their best, 

In language that every bird speaks." 

" Boring holes in my house is no fun, 
You waken Lorraine in the night, 
So be off, or I'll get out my gun, 

And wing you, woodpecker, at sight." 

" Oh, fiddlesticks ! " answered the bird, 
" Such threats are a very stale yarn ; 
And according to what I have heard, 
You can't damage the side of a barn." 

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Then that housekeeper took a long aim, 
And bang ! came a vicious report ; 

For a fortnight his shoulder was lame, 
But the woodpecker laughed at the sport. 

And that woodpecker never is flitting, 
But labors the eaves underneath, 

While the housekeeper, impotent sitting, 
Is grumpily grinding his teeth. 




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Lorraine's Temptation. 

STRANGE sights and queer sounds greet Lorraine 
As she sits on top of her rock, 
Where the waves tumble in from the main 
And bespatter her stiff Sunday frock. 

The sea-urchin squats on the sand — 

The tide makes him wabble and lurch — 

And urgently waving his hand, 

Cries, " Darling, come down from your perch ! " 

The sea-serpent, lashing his tail — 

Aquatic descendant of him 
Who o'er Mother Eve did prevail — 

Cries, " Blonde one, come into the swim ! " 

The sea-horse, unloosed from his rack, 

Curvetting as high as he's able, 
Declares, " If you'll mount on my back, 

I'll show you my submarine stable." 

The seal, all the way from Alaska, 

Exclaims, " Let me take you to nurse; 

I'll give you a sack that would task a 
Fond millionaire's plethoric purse." 

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A mermaid, with hair never cropped, 

Seductively warbles and begs, 
i Oh, how I would like to adopt 

A child that is furnished with legs ! " 

Lorraine never straightens her knees, 
For deep in the billowy dark, 

Concealed from our vision, she sees 
The grin of a cannibal shark. 

To childhood 'tis given to know 
Much wisdom that older folk lack ; 

No woman would e'er look below, 
When promised the gift of a sack ! 



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Three Heads. 

BROWN-HEAD and Yellow-head, both fair to see 
Cling around Gray-head, and climb on his lap ; 
Mounted securely on grandpapa's knee, 
Ready for play or for stories or nap. 

Brown-head insists on a tragical tale 
Of lions in deserts, who like man-meat ; 

And terrors that turn old travelers pale 
Don't move him a whit in his chosen seat. 

Yellow-head prattles of dolly and gown, 
Explains how the carpet she neatly sweeps ; 

She looks at the " wheels " with a watchful frown, 
And combs her old Gray-head until he weeps. 

Brown-head is five years and Yellow-head three, 
Gray-head they think must be twenty at least, 

But in one notion they fully agree, 
That only by loving is love increased. 

Not very long till they're all of an age ; 

Wisdom is equal, when all's said or sung; 
Man getting foolish and child growing sage, 

Young waxing ancient and old turning young. 

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Bedtime. 

UP the ladder into the sky, 
Up the stairs creep baby and I - 
One, two, three 
Steps take we, 
Baby yawning wearily. 

On my shoulder a curly head, 

Cheeks all burning with deepening red - 

Four, five, six, 

Now the sticks 
Fasten eyelids down like lead. 

Oh, how heavy my baby grows ! 
Oh, how still in her snowy clothes ! 

Seven, eight, nine, 

Not a sign 
From fingers that mine enclose. 

Now the last of the lowly flight 
Comes to thy mother's eager sight — 

Ten, eleven, twelve, 

Now I shelve 
My baby in slumbers light. 

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Lay her down in feathery nest, 
One deep sigh from her little breast - 

Other stairs 

By my prayers 
Raise her to heavenly rest ! 



5*> 




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How a Bibliomaniac Binds His Books. 

I'D like my favorite books to bind 
So that their outward dress 
To every bibliomaniac's mind 
Their contents should express. 

Napoleon's life should glare in red, 

John Calvin's gloom in blue; 
Thus they would typify bloodshed 

And sour religion's hue. 

The prize-ring record of the past 

Must be in blue and black ; 
While any color that is fast 

Would do for Derby track. 

The Popes in scarlet well may go ; 

In jealous green, Othello; 
In gray, Old Age of Cicero, 

And London Cries in yellow. 

My Walton should his gentle art 

In salmon best express, 
And Penn and Fox the Friendly heart 

In quiet drab confess. 

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Statistics of the lumber trade 

Should be embraced in boards, 
While muslin for the inspired Maid 

A fitting garb affords. 

Intestine wars I'd clothe in vellum, 

While pigskin Bacon grasps, 
And flat romances such as " Pelham," 

Should stand in calf with clasps. 

Blind tooled should be blank verse and rhyme 

Of Homer and of Milton ; 
But Newgate Calendar of Crime 

I'd lavishly dab gilt on. 

The edges of a sculptor's life 

May fitly marbled be ; 
But sprinkle not, for fear of strife, 

A Baptist history. 

Crimea's warlike facts and dates 

Of fragrant Russia smell; 
The subjugated Barbary States 

In crushed Morocco dwell. 

I don't like Owen Meredith — 

Perhaps it is a whim — 
He so lacks energy and pith 

Lucile-skin does for him. 

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But oh ! that one I hold so dear 
Should be arrayed so cheap 

Gives me a qualm ; I sadly fear 
My Lamb must be half-sheep ! 




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Solitaire. 

I LIKE to play cards with a man of sense, 
And allow him to play with me ; 
And so it has grown a delight intense 
To play solitaire on my knee. 

I love the quaint form of the sceptered king, 

The simplicity of the ace, 
The stolid knave like a wooden thing, 

And her majesty's smirking face. 

Diamonds, aces, and clubs, and spades — 

Their garb of respectable black 
A moiety brilliant of red invades, 

As they mingle in motley pack. 

Independent of any one's signal or leave, 
Released from the bluffing of poker, 

I've no apprehension of ace up a sleeve, 
And fear no superfluous joker. 

I build up and down ; all the cards I hold, 

And the game is always fair, 
For I am honest, and so is my old 

Companion at solitaire. 

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Let kings condescend to the lower grades, 

Let queens shine in diamonds rare, 
Let knaves flourish clubs, and peasants wield spades, 

But give me my solitaire. 




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How I Go a-Fishing. 

fr I "IS sweet to sit in shady nook, 

A Or wade in rapid crystal brook, 
Impervious in rubber boots, 
And wary of the slippery roots, 
To snare the swift evasive trout 
Or eke the sauntering horn-pout ; 
Or in the cold Canadian river 
To see the glorious salmon quiver, 
And them with tempting hook inveigle, 
Fit viand for a table regal ; 
Or after an exciting bout 
To snatch the pike with sharpened snout ; 
Or with some patient ass to row 
To troll for bass with motion slow. 
Oh ! joy supreme when they appear 
Splashing above the water clear, 
And drawn reluctantly to land 
Lie gasping on the yellow sand ! 
But sweeter far to read the books 
That treat of flies and worms and hooks, 
From Pickering's monumental page. 
(Late rivaled by the rare Dean Sage), 
And Majors elder issues neat, 
And Burnand's funny " Incompleat." 

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I love their figures quaint and queer, 

Which on the inviting page appear, 

From those of good Dame Juliana, 

Who lifts a fish and cries hosanna, 

To those of Stothard, graceful Quaker, 

Of fishy art supremest maker, 

Whose fisherman, so dry and neat, 

Would never soil a parlor seat. 

I love them all, the books on angling, 

And far from cares and business jangling, 

Ensconced in cosy chimney corner, 

Like the traditional Jack Horner, 

I read from Walton down to Lang, 

And hum that song the Milkmaid sang. 

I get not tired nor wet nor cross, 

Nor suffer monetary loss — 

If fish are shy and will not bite, 

And shun the snare laid in their sight — 

In order home at night to bring 

A fraudulent, deceitful string, 

And thus escape the merry jeers 

Of heartless piscatory peers ; 

Nor have to listen to the lying 

Of fishermen while fish are frying, 

Who boast of draughts miraculous 

Which prove too large a draught on us. 

I spare the rod, and rods don't break ; 

Nor fish in sight the hook forsake ; 

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My lines ne'er snap like corset laces ; 
My lines are fallen in pleasant places. 
And so in sage experience ripe, 
My fishery is but a type. 




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A Portrait. 

A GENTLE face is ever in my room, 
With features fine and melancholy eyes, 
Though young, a little past life's freshest bloom. 
And always with air of sad surmise. 

A great white cap almost conceals her hair, 
A collar broad falls o'er her shoulders slender; 

The fashion of a bygone age an air 

Of quaintness to her simple garb doth render. 

Those hazel eyes pursue me as I move 
And seem to watch my busy, toiling pen; 

They hold me with an anxious, yearning love, 
As if she dwelt upon the earth again. 

My mother's portrait ! fifty years ago, 
When I was but a heedless, happy boy, 

The influence of her being ceased to flow, 
And she laid down life's burden and its joy. 

And now as I sit pondering o'er my books, 

So vainly seeking a receding rest, 
I read the wonder in her steadfast look ; 

" Is this my son who lay upon my breast ? " 

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And when for me there is an end of time, 

And this unsatisfying work is done, 
If I shall meet thee in thy peaceful clime, 

Young mother, wilt thou know thy gray-haired son ? 




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My Shingle. 

MY shingle is battered and old, 
No longer deciphered with ease, 
So I've taken it in from the cold 
And fastened it up on a frieze. 

A long generation ago, 

With feelings of singular pride, 
I regarded its glittering show, 

And pointed it out to my bride. 

Companions of youth have grown few, 
Its loves and aversions are faint ; 

No spirit to make friends anew, 
An old enemy seems like a saint. 

My clients have paid the last fee 
For passage in Charon's sad boat, 

Imposing no duty on me 

Save to utter this querulous note, 

And still as I toil in life's mills, 

In loneliness growing profound, 
To attend on the proof of their wills 

And swear that their wits were quite sound ! 

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So I work with the scissors and pen, 
And to show of old courage a spark, 

I must utter a jest now and then, 

Like the whistling of boy in the dark. 

I tack my old friend on the wall, 
So that infantile grandson of mine 

May not think, if my life he recall, 
That I died without making a sign. 

When at court on the great judgment day 
With penitent suitors I mingle, 

May my guilt be washed cleanly away, 
Like that on my faded old shingle ! 




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The Sentimental Chambermaid. 

WHEN you're in Paris, do not fail 
To seek the Quai de Conti, 
Where in the roguish Parson's tale, 

Upon the river front he 
Bespoke the pretty chambermaid 
Too innocent to be afraid. 

At this bookseller's moldy stall, 
Crammed full of volumes musty, 

I made a bibliophilic call, 
And saw, in garments rusty, 

The ancient vendor, queer to view, 

In breeches, buckles, and a queue. 

And while to find that famous book, 

"Les Egaremens du Cceur" 
I diligently undertook, 

I suddenly met her ; — 
She held a small green satin purse 
And spite of time, looked none the worse. 

I told her she was known to fame 

Through ministerial mentor, 
And though I had not heard her name, 

That this should not prevent her 
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From listening to the homage due 
To one to sentiment so true. 

She blushed; I bowed in courtly fashion; 

In pockets of my trousers 
Then sought a crown to vouch my passion, 

Without intent to rouse hers ; 
But I had left my purse, 'twould seem — 
And then I woke — 'twas but a dream ! 

The heart will wander, never doubt, 

Though waking faith it keep ; 
That is exceptionally stout 

Which strays but in its sleep ; 
And hearts must always turn to her 
Who loved "Les Egaremens du Cceur." 



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My Schoolmate. 

[ On a medallion by Erastus Dow Palmer.] 

THE snows have settled on my head, 
But not upon my heart, 
And incidents of years long fled, 

From out my memory start. 
My hand is cunning to contrive 

The shapes my brain invents, 
And keep in marble forms alive 

That which the soul contents. 
And I have wife, and children tall, 

Grandchildren cluster near, 
And sweet the applause of men doth fall 

On my undeafened ear ; 
But still my mind will backward turn 

For half a century, 
And without reasoning will yearn 

For sight or news of thee, 
Thou playmate of my boyhood days, 

When life was all aglow, 
When the sweetest thing was thy girlish praise, 

As I drew thee o'er the snow 
To the old red school-house by the road, 

Where we learned to spell and read, 

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When thou wert all my fairy load, 

And I was thy prancing steed ! 
Oh, thou wert simple then, and fair. 

Artless and unconstrained, 
With quaintly knotted auburn hair 

From which the wind refrained, 
And from thine earnest steady eyes 

Shone out a nature pure, 
Formed by kind heaven, a man's best prize, 

To love and to endure ! 

Oh, art thou still in life and time, 

Or hast thou gone before ? 
And hath thy lot been like to mine, 

Or pinched and bare and sore ? 
And didst thou marry, or art thou 

Still of the spinster tribe? 
Perchance thou art a widow now, 

Steeled against second bribe ? 
Do grandsons round thy hearthstone play? 

Or dost thou end thy race ? 
And could that auburn hair grow gray, 

And wrinkles line thy face ? 
I cannot make thee old nor plain — 

I would not if I could — 
But I recall thee without stain, 

Simply and sweetly good ; 
And I have carved thy pretty head, 

And hung it on my wall, 

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And unto all men be it said, 

I like it best of all; 
For on a far-off snowy road, 

Before I had learned to read, 
Thou wert all my fairy load, 

And I was thy prancing steed ! 




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Ode to Caliph Omar. 

OMAR, who burned (if thou didst burn) 
The Alexandrian tomes, 
I would erect to thee an urn 
Beneath Sophia's domes. 

Would that thy exemplary torch 

Might bravely blaze again, 
And many manufactories scorch 

Of book-inditing men ! 

So many books I can't endure, — 

The dull and commonplace, 
The dirty, trifling, and obscure, 

The realistic race. 

The poets who write " dialect," 

Maudlin and coarse by turns, 
Most ardently do I expect 

Thou' It wither up with Burns. 

All the erotic, yawping class 

Condemn with judgment stern — 

Walt Whitman's rotten " Leaves of Grass " 
And elegant Swinburne. 

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Of commentators make a point, 

The carping, blind, and dry ; 
Rend the " Baconians " joint by joint, 

And throw them on to fry. 

Especially I'd have thee choke 

Law-libraries in sheep, 
With fire derived from ancient Coke, 

And sink in ashes deep. 

Destroy the sheep — don't save my own — 

I weary of the cram, 
The misplaced diligence I've shown — 

But kindly spare my Lamb, 

Fear not to sprinkle on the pyre, 
The woes of " Esther Waters ; " 

They'll only make the flames burn higher, 
And warn Eve's other daughters. 

Beware of Howells and of James, 

Of Trollope and his rout ; 
The first would dampen down your flames, 

The others put them out ! 

The man who writes but hundred pages 
Where thousands went before, 

Deserves the thanks of weary sages, 
And Omar should adore. 

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My Friends the Books. 

FRIENDS of my youth and of my age 
Within my chambers wait 
Until I fondly turn the page, 
And prove them wise and great. 

At me they do not rudely glare 

With eye that luster lacks, 
But knowing how I hate a stare 

Politely turn their backs. 

They never split my head with din, 
Nor snuffle through their noses, 

Nor admiration seek to win 
By inartistic poses. 

If I should chance to fall asleep 

They do not scowl nor snap, 
But prudently their counsel keep 

Till I have had my nap. 

And if I choose to rout them out 

Unseasonably at night, 
They do not chafe nor curse nor pout, 

But rise all clothed and bright. 
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They ne'er intrude with silly say, 
They never scold nor worry ; 

They ne'er suspect and ne'er betray, 
They're never in a hurry. 

Anacreon never gets quite full, 

Nor Horace too flirtatious, 
And Swift makes fun of Johnny Bull, 

And Addison is gracious. 

Saint- Simon and Grammont rehearse 
Their tales of court with glee ; 

For all their scandal I'm no worse — 
They never peach on me. 

For what I owe Montaigne, no dread 
To meet him on the morrow ; 

And better still, it must be said 
He never wants to borrow. 

Paul never asks, though sure to preach, 
Why I don't come to church ; 

Though Doctor Johnson strives to teach, 
I do not fear his birch. 

My Dickens never is away 

Whene'er I choose to call ; 
I need not wait for Thackeray 

In chill palatial hall. 

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I help to bring Amelia to, 

Who always is a-fainting; 
I love the Oxford Graduate who 

Explains great Turner's painting. 

My memory is full of graves 

Of friends in days gone by, 
But Time these sweet companions saves - 

These friends who never die ! 




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the Churchyard 



the Churchyard 



Man's Pillow. 

A BABY lying on his mother's breast 
Draws life from that sweet fount ; 

He takes his rest 

And heaves deep sighs ; 

With brooding eyes 

Of soft content 
She shelters him within that fragrant nest, 
And scarce refrains from crushing him 

With tender violence, 
His rosebud mouth, each rosy limb 

Excite such joy intense ; 
Rocked on that gentle billow, 

She sings into his ear 
A song that angels stoop to hear. 
Blest child and mother doubly blest ! 

Such his first pillow. 

A man outwearied with the world's mad race 
His mother seeks again ; 
His furrowed face, 
His tired gray head, 
His heart of lead 
Resigned he yields ; 

137 



Che Cburcbyard 

She covers him in some secluded place, 
And kindly heals the earthy scar 

Of spade with snow and flowers, 
While glow of sun and gleam of star. 

And murmuring rush of showers, 
And wind-obeying willow 

Attend his unbroken sleep ; 
In this repose secure and deep, 
Forgotten save by One, he leaves no trace. 
Such his last pillow. 




138 



Che Churchyard 



The Fates. 

CHILDHOOD holds the thread of life 
Whence the deeds of man are spun ; 
Shall his days be passed in strife, 

Or in pleasure shall they run ? 
Born in vice and poverty — 

Lapped in ease and comfort fair — 
Speck upon a boundless sea, 

Atom trembling in the air, 
Thoughtless childhood holds the thread, 
Looking forward without dread; 
Shall it be ill spun or well ? — 
Cain or Abel ? — who can tell ? 

Manhood spins the vital line 

Which it draws from childhood's hand ; — 
Heir of wit and virtue fine — 

Slave of passion's fell command — 
Murderer lurking in the night — 

Warrior with blazoned shield — 
Preacher urging mercy's might — 

Wretch against that mercy steeled — 
Busy man must spin the thread, 
Bright with hope or dark with dread; 
Spins he ill or spins he well ? — 
Saint or sinner? — who can tell? 

139 



Che Churchyard 

Old Age cuts the fragile thread, 

Slender hold on earth and pleasure ; 
But this life when men have read, 

Who its good or bad can measure? 
Life of earnest usefulness, 

Sympathy and charity ? 
Life of greed and selfishness, 

Passion, crime, or levity? 
Weary Age the thread doth sunder 
Leaving men to doubt and wonder — 
Spun he ill or spun he well ? — 
Lost or saved? — but One can tell. 




140 



the Churchyard 



The Bell. 

THE purling river at their feet, 
The moon in a cloudless sky, 
The wind of June with clover sweet, 

The river hurrying by, 
The moon declining from her height — 
Two lovers slowly walked at night, 
Their souls enthralled with love's delight 
As they walked that night when they were young ; 
When suddenly on the breeze was flung 
The note of a sweet and distant bell, 
Like voice of a warning friend to tell : 
"The hour is late, 
No longer roam, 
But yield to fate, 
Ye must go home." 
And they looked in each other's eyes, 
And repeated with heavy sighs, 
" We must go home." 

Across long leagues of weary space, 

And silent lapses of years — 
Some made short by loving grace, 

Some lengthened by heavy fears — 

141 



the Churchyard 

One walks in thought by the river's side, 
He sees the moon in the heavens ride, 
He scents the odors of meadows wide, 
As on that night when they were young ; 
And again he hears that sweet bell rung: 
It sounds with accents sadly human, 
Like voice of loved and dying woman : 
" The time is late, 
No longer roam, 
Resist not fate, 

But come thou home. ,, 
And then he gazes in the sky, 
And answers, but without a sigh, 
" I would go home." 




142 



the Churchyard 



Love's Ghost. 

THE rainbow of yesterday, 
The scent of a bygone June, 
The full moon riding her starless way, 

The strains of an old-time tune, 
Shall make again the sad heart smile, 
Once more the weary sense beguile. 

Even love that lies in the mold 
Was never cherished in vain, 
For after deep longing and pain, 
From its ashes a century old 
' Twill spring into life again. 
" I remember ! " the spirit will cry, 
" I remember ! no longer I die ! " 

But hopeless the love that is dead 

But still is above the ground ; 
Its unhappy ghost will sighing tread 
In vain its reluctant round, 
Seeking peace that can never be found. 
" Oh, to forget ! " the spirit will cry, 
" I cannot forget, I cannot die ! " 

143 



the Cburcbyard 



Hope. 



WHEN does God set forth his bow? 
Not when skies are fair, 
But when the air 
Is full of gentle rain, and low 
The sun glows in the dappled west ; 
Or when above the cataract's crest 
Ascends the shattered mist, 
With radiance kissed. 

So Hope shines brightest when the soul 

Possessed by fears, 
Looks toward the goal 

Of Life through clouds of tears. 



144 



The Garret 



the Garret 



The Poet. 

THE poet starves in a garret high, 
Misfortune's pitiful sport, 
Looking up to a narrow patch of sky, 
And down on a squalid court. 

But genius lends to his fancy wings, 

As he sits in his cheerless den, 
And whispers many mysterious things 

Not granted to richer men. 

He hears the song of a straying bird, 

He knows the words of its lay, 
He hears the lowing of distant herd, 

And knows what the beasts would say. 

He bows in temple of evening cloud, 

Interprets the chant of the sea, 
The silence of mountain gloomy-browed, 

And murmur of forest tree. 

He looks through the vista into heaven 
And down through the earth into hell, 

He knows the dreams of the Sleepers Seven, 
And he knows the Sirens' spell. 

147 



Che Garret 

The Sphinx in the desert speaks to him 
As he waits at her stony mouth, 

He sees the source of the river's brim 
Far off in the trackless south. 

He reads the heart of his fellow man, 
He tears the mask from his face, 

He withers the mighty with his ban, 
And clothes the humble with grace. 

Men do not know this privileged king, 
And he cares not for their strife, 

For rather far would he starve and sing 
Than thrive in their grosser life. 

Vain to seek for the place of his dust, 
The earth answers not of him, 

But tardy reverence rears his bust 
On wall of cathedral dim. 



148 



the 6arret 



The Spinning Wheel. 

WHEN I endeavor 
To tell my love the pangs I feel, 
She starts the lever 
That moves her spinning wheel. 

What can be worse 
Than thus to interrupt the thread 

Of my discourse 
With dainty slippered tread ? 

Her dimpled wrist 
No wheel of goddess Fortune turns, 

But never missed, 
My one occasion spurns. 

I raise my voice, 
But louder sounds that hateful whir ; 

There is no choice — 
She heeds not my demur. 

So by and by 
She deigns some soft remark to make ; 

Of my reply 
She will no notice take. 

149 



Cbe 6arret 

And so whenever 
I strive to speak for love's sweet sake, 

She will endeavor 
On wheel my heart to break. 

Oh, cruel fate ! 
Wilt never stay this noisy spinning ? 

Learn then, too late, 
I go to easier winning. 

Bestow her wheel 
In garret, prey to mouse and spider, 

Nor let her feel 
Another love beside her ! 




150 



On the Tower 



tbe Cower 



Young and Old. 

THE maiden moon, 
Fair and slender, 
With eager arms 
And accents tender, 
Yearns and sings as she advances, 
Wooes her globe with glowing glances ; 
" Hither come, thou shining round, 
World of all delight, 
Of hope and joy, 
Let me every night 
In pleasure toy ; 
Stay thou in my embraces bound." 

The aged moon, 

Shrunk and dreary, 
With drooping arms 
And accents weary, 
Mourns and chides in her retreating, 
Brightness from her glances fleeting; 
" Ah ! begone, thou empty sphere ! 
World of cheat and pain ; 

No more return ! 
Thou shalt ne'er again 
My pledges earn ; 
Thy service cost me far too dear ! " 

153 



tbe tower 



The Moon as Viewed by Different 
Persons. 

BY THE YOUNG WOMAN. 

UNDER the moon my lover walks with me, 
And swears his love will never know eclipse, 
And then with unrebuked liberty 

He seals that vow upon my trembling lips. 
I do not doubt ; but should I lose the spark 
Of his dear love, my world would grow as dark 
As when the moon below the horizon dips. 

BY THE PHYSICIAN. 

The moon is my good patron ; fruitful source 
Of aches and pains and cold is moonlight walk, 

From which the spoony strollers come home hoarse 
And find themselves debarred from all discourse. 

Romantic folk who haunt the moonlit bower 

Are apt to lie beneath the tall church tower; 
Sunstroke is bad, but lunatic is worse. 

BY THE PAINTER. 

What size shall I depict the plaguey thing ? 

Like cart wheel, dinner plate, or wafer? 
No matter how, 'twill criticism bring; 

To leave it out would be the safer, 

154 



Che Cower 

It looks so different to different eyes ; 
But I've an order for a Bridge of Sighs, 
And moonlight there is what they pay for. 

BY THE BURGLAR. 

The purp is pizened, and the guv'nor's blind 
With sleep; the gal's a signalin' hupstairs; 

But 'ere the moon comes, bloomin' biggest kind, 
A hinterferin' with private haffairs ; 

And so tonight there's no more 'ope o' boodle : 

Too bad to give a 'onest cove such trouble; 
S'm' other hevenin' I vill bag their vares. 

BY THE ASTRONOMER. 

" The undevout astronomer is mad," 

The poet said, and in one sense was right ; 

But he can't be expected to be glad, 

Now he has brought the moon within plain sight, 

To find no sign of life — a lot of empty craters, 

Dotting her surface like huge nutmeg graters — 
A very unattractive lamp of night. 

BY THE FARMER. 

That pesky moon is always wet or dry, 

A turnin' down or up her darned old horn, 

A rottin' all the taters and the rye, 

Or burnin' up the garden-sass and corn ; 

I'd like for once a good fair average moon, 

But if this kind keeps up I'd jest as soon 
Or even sooner, that I'd not been born. 
155 



Cfce Cower 

BY THE POET. 

And still the moon moves on in God's highway, 

Heedless alike of fond Endymion's sighs, 

Of querulous man's lament, of watchdog's bay, 

And shows nor scorn nor pity nor surprise. 

So shall she move, until this trivial world, 

In|hopeless ruin and confusion hurled, 

Lies shattered at the awful judgment day. 




156 



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